Shot in the Dark Missing Scene
by Beth Green
Summary: No schmoop, just hurt/comfort ... because I couldn't leave Shawn leaning against Lassiter's car.
1. Chapter 1

SHOT IN THE DARK - MISSING SCENE

By Beth Green

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There was no shelter. Shawn's eyes narrowed in unconscious response to the brightness of the sun. The harsh light was mercifully blocked by two rapidly approaching figures. Gus easily beat Juliet in their impromptu footrace.

A dark face leaned down to meet Shawn at his own level. He did not realize how much he longed to hear his best friend's familiar voice until Gus' words poured out in a frantic stream. "Shawn! Oh my God, Shawn! I can't believe this! You've been shot. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh my God …"

Shawn raised a hand to put a stop to the flow of words, surprised at how much effort was required to perform the simple task. "You're repeating yourself there, buddy."

Gus' eyes widened as his gaze fixed upon Shawn's trembling hand. The dark-skinned man paled noticeably, his Adam's apple working as he dry-swallowed. It took longer than it should have for Shawn to figure out what was going on. He took his eyes off of Gus and followed the direction of his friend's line of sight to stare at the dried blood on his own hand.

The graphic reminder of his ordeal seemed to treble the pain in his shoulder. The steady, continuous ache grew and grew until there was room for nothing else in his brain other than the messages from the pain signals screaming along his nerves in an agonizing, rising crescendo to peak in sharp, blinding intensity. Someone may have shouted. Shawn could not be sure what he heard over the screaming. His body no longer under his control, his muscles spasmed. He wanted to curl around the pain, regardless of the consequences. Shawn was vaguely aware when his body began to slide down and off of the supporting automobile. The pain began to ease, enough that part of his mind was freed so that he could be grateful when he did not hit the ground. "… Th-thanks."

Voices spoke over other voices in a frantic jumble of questions, answers, and orders. Shawn decided that it was not worth the effort it would take to sort the sounds into words. Hands touched and pulled and his head was resting on something soft. The pain eased, and his mind began to drift. If he was in shock, Shawn decided that shock was a *good* thing, because finally, after hours of unrelenting physical ache, the pain in his shoulder began to fade.

Maybe he was asleep; dreaming. Maybe this had all been a terrible nightmare. Shawn's wishful thinking was shattered by reality when his Dad's gruff voice intruded upon his drifting thoughts. "Shawn, I'm sorry, this is gonna hurt." Shawn opened his eyes at that comment, spurred to sudden wakefulness at the threat to his tenuous peace. He saw a hand reaching for his shoulder and found the strength to reach out and stop it before it could reach its destination.

He looked up into his father's face, staring into the face of the man whose lessons may have just saved his life; the same man whose lessons closed off almost every sane or reasonable career opportunity thanks to his unique "training." What Shawn had meant as an order came out as a plea: "Don't." He tried but failed to convey the seriousness of the message with his body language.

Henry shook his head, seemingly unmoved by his son's plea. "All your jumping around opened up your shoulder wound. Because bleeding to death is not an option, you don't have a choice."

Shawn did not want to hear his father's words. There was always a choice. He chose not to loosen his grip on Henry's forearm. His father looked up and away from his son. "A little help here, Detective."

Lassiter crouched down next to Henry and easily removed Shawn's hand. "Spencer, you don't have the time to waste waiting for an ambulance. Your father knows what he's doing. Let him do it." Lassiter's hands abruptly became restraints.

Shawn's "No-o-oo-oo!" became a long, drawn-out cry of pain; his eyes squeezed tight, he felt hands upon him, preventing him from moving as bulky bandages were bound tightly to his shoulder from the front and behind. It seemed to take forever before his father was done torturing him.

Long, agonizing minutes passed before his father finally announced, "That's it; you can relax."

Shawn opened his eyes, unashamed at the tears he could feel leaking down the sides of his face. He ran a tongue over dry lips, seeking moisture that was not there, and glared up at his father. His voice a hoarse croak, Shawn uttered words recalled from a lifetime ago: "You must really hate me."

As in the past, Shawn's pointed declaration did not receive a response from its target.

For long minutes afterward, Shawn lay panting and sweating. His pillow had not moved the entire time. To distract himself from the pain, he decided to try and figure out what he was lying on. He moved his head to the side enough so that he could see that his "pillow" was wearing dark pants. Okay, if Dad and Lassie were with him, Jules must be with the psycho crazy bastard who liked to play with guns. That left …

"… Gu-s." Shawn frowned at how weak his voice sounded.

Shawn felt his pillow move as a familiar face leaned over him. "I'm right here."

Shawn relaxed and let his eyes fall closed. He opened them a long second later to add, "You're wearing my shirt." His eyes closed again and a small smile pulled at his lips as Gus indignantly replied, "YOUR shirt? Excuse me, this is MY shirt. And you are so busted. Do you know how many of my shirts I found over at your place? *Too* many, that's for damn sure."

Shawn let Gus' words distract him from the ever-present pain. The approaching whine of an ambulance siren promised that the worst would soon be over.

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Author's note:

Is it wrong of me to want to continue this because we never got to see Shawn in a hospital gown?


	2. Chapter 2

Shot in the Dark - Continued

Author: Beth Green

Author's notes: I know I wrote "Complete" after I posted the first chapter of this, but my Psych muse had other ideas. This takes place immediately after the previous chapter.

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The ambulance arrived and the paramedics began to work quickly and efficiently on their patient. They asked questions as they assessed Shawn's physical condition.

Henry was reluctant to leave his stricken son's side, but was figuratively pushed out of the way when the paramedics began to work.

One of the medics asked, "What happened?"

Henry's opinion of the man plummeted, and he snapped out the obvious answer. "He's been shot, what the hell do you think happened?"

The senior medic tried to placate the irate father while his partner established an I.V. line. "Sir, we're just trying to do our jobs. Does the patient-"

Henry interrupted, "His name is Shawn."

The medic continued, "Does Shawn have any injuries other than the gunshot wound?"

That question caused Henry's anger to ease so that a new emotion, guilt, could creep in. He mentally scolded himself: 'I should've thought to ask that question myself long before now.' Henry turned worried eyes upon his son. "Shawn? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Shawn had seen enough medical dramas on TV that he decided a slight untruth might be the best course of action. If he confessed to having been hit on the head, he suspected that he ran the risk that the medics might withhold the pain medication he so desperately needed. He let his voice rise to a high-pitched whine that never failed to get on his father's nerves in the past. Knowing his father, the old man would be distracted enough that he might forget the original question.

"Da-ad, I've been shot. I've got a hole through my shoulder; entrance wound and exit wound. Isn't that enough?" Technically, Shawn had not lied; he'd simply omitted a little bit of information, a tiny factoid.

Unfortunately for Shawn, his father was in some sort of weird hyper-vigilant parent mode. His eyes never left Shawn's as he barked out his demands in his best 'cop-interrogator' tone of voice. "Shawn, answer the question. Are you hurt anywhere else besides your shoulder?" When Shawn did not immediately answer, Henry's face sagged, the robust cop giving way to exhausted retiree. Instead of Kojak, Shawn was facing a worried father. "Son, where are you hurt? What happened?"

With no reserves of energy left to fall back on, Shawn caved when confronted with the concerned parent in place of the usual the strict disciplinarian. "Okay, after the dead guy shot me (before he was dead), his partner might've hit me on the head." While the paramedic began to feel Shawn's scalp looking for injuries, Shawn continued, "In my defense, I didn't know he was his partner at the time." The paramedic quickly located the site of the injury, as evidenced by Shawn's pained, "Ow!" He began to raise his hand toward the source of the pain, only to have the move halted by his father's firm possession of his shock-cold hand in his thankfully warm grasp.

"Shawn, let the man do his job."

Shawn's voice lowered to a weak, regretful baritone as he confessed, "I thought I had actually managed to rescue myself." He looked up at his Dad, surprised when the older man's face crumpled at his next words, "I remembered what you said, Dad, and I tried, I really tried, but I guess you couldn't teach me everything."

Shawn was distracted while the paramedic performed a neurological examination, so he could not be certain of his father's next words: "… But I should have."

After the neuro check was completed, Shawn focused hopeful eyes on the paramedic: "So, can I have my pain medication now?"

Shawn read the answer in the man's eyes; they were full of compassion combined with regret. "I'm sorry, I can't give you anything or it might interfere with assessment of your head injury."

Shawn was not ready to give up. "Okay, no drugs, I get that. Do you think you could maybe just hit me on the head again?"

Not being familiar with his patient, the medic was obviously unsure if Shawn meant what he'd said. Henry picked up on the man's confusion, and clarified, "That's not his head injury talking, that's Shawn; and no, he's not serious."

Shawn grumbled in response, "I'm as serious as a someone who's been shot and has a huge hole is his chest can be."

The medics responded, "Well then, the quicker we get you to the hospital, the better," preparing Shawn for transport.

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Shawn was awake and aware for the majority of the unpleasant ambulance ride. It was a long one, as his kidnappers had set up shop a considerable distance from Santa Barbara. It seemed that the ambulance driver managed to find every bump and pothole in the road. Whenever the vehicle ran over a patch of defective road, the shock of impact reverberated throughout the metallic structures and passed through the uncomfortable mattress of the gurney to vibrate every bone in Shawn's body.

Shawn's grunts and groans proved an ineffective outlet for the excruciating agony of his shoulder pain, so he made use of the only pain relief option he had: distraction. He began by concentrating on the roof of the ambulance, counting the number of rivets in the seam directly over his head. Unfortunately, the harsh lighting from the fluorescent lights combined with the bright white paint color burned a hole into his brain, awakening a headache he'd been vaguely aware of prior to getting in the ambulance. He turned his head away from the glare and spoke to the paramedic sitting across from the gurney.

"Hey Johnny … or is it Roy?"

The brown-skinned man replied, "Actually, it's Abdullah."

Shawn opened eyes he'd half-closed against the light and read the man's name badge. "So, is that Abe for short?" Not giving the medic the chance to reply, Shawn continued, "Or maybe Abby? That's my girlfriend's name: Abs; Abby; Abigail. She means a lot to me, in an 'Oh-my-God-it's-scary-she's-moved-her-things-into-my-apartment' kind of way."

He didn't want to think about how serious his relationship with Abigail had become, so he changed the subject. "Have you guys ever considered redecorating? I mean, white for an ambulance is probably not the best color choice, what with all the blood and whatnot." Shawn felt himself pale at the reminder that some of the blood theoretically discoloring the ambulance could very well be his own. He swallowed against sudden nausea.

The paramedic did not miss the change in his patient's condition. He held a bowl in his hands. "Feel like you're going to throw up? You need this?"

Shawn swallowed again, before waving away the bowl. His "I'm okay" was shaky, and far from the truth.

Abdullah reassessed his patient and reported his findings to the hospital, asking questions as he worked. "Shawn, how are you feeling?"

Shawn took a minute to think about it. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. "I think …" The distraction provided by the hovering paramedic didn't help, but Shawn finally came up with the answer. "I feel like I'm going to pass ou-" Shawn had to stop speaking when his tongue became numb; the numbness seemed to be affecting his entire body. Bright light began to fade; sound became muted. Reality twisted, and Shawn dropped out of the world and into unconsciousness.

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Author's notes:

And they lived happily ever after. Eventually.

Okay, okay, quit throwing rotten tomatoes. For those who want it, there is more to come.


	3. Chapter 3

SHOT IN THE DARK - Missing Scene - Interlude

Author: Beth Green

Author's notes: I hope you all don't mind, but my Psych muse insisted upon a brief return to the episode scene that started this series of Psychfic missing scenes.

Some of the following dialogue has been borrowed from the wonderful writers of Psych.

WARNING: Some swearing is involved in this part. Lassiter and Henry don't use kind words to refer to the man that they think shot Shawn.

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"Oh my God, he shot my car!"

Gus worried about his car. If he worried about Shawn every damn time his friend did something stupid like, say, jumping onto the hood of a speeding car, he would worry himself into an early grave. He did not want to think about how this case-that-was-not-a-case could so easily have resulted in Shawn's cold, lifeless body being buried in a grave of his own. He did not want to think about the blood trail left on the ground at the storage yard so many hours ago. He did not want to do the math, to calculate that there were 10 pints of blood in the human body, and if he subtracted the amount of blood lost at the scene, combined with the amount of blood Shawn had been losing during the many long hours he'd been kidnapped, combined with the knowledge that loss of more than 40% of circulating blood volume was fatal without immediate care …

… Gus worried about his car.

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Juliet was calm, in control. She was a professional. She knew that Gus' rant about his car was his way of coping with the fact that his best friend had been shot and kidnapped.

She would have gladly slapped Gus when they first caught up to the pickup truck and Gus decided to start shouting over her head and practically in her ear in order to communicate with Shawn. Juliet had not understood Shawn's initial statement to them. She was too busy concentrating on trying to match speeds with the racing truck while simultaneously watching for possible danger from an unseen weapon from the truck's cab. When Shawn shouted back in the same nonsensical jargon, Juliet's eyes widened in disbelief. As if oblivious to the danger around them, Shawn and Gus were making *movie* references! She let the bizarre dialogue continue without comment when it became clear that Gus was helping Shawn to deal with their impossible situation.

Juliet felt a sense of unreality when Shawn began to swing a leg over the side of the truck. He couldn't possibly be thinking …

"You ready, buddy? I'm gonna jump on your hood!"

Oh my God, he was. Before Juliet could talk him out of it, Gus replied.

"You must be out of your damn mind! This is a company car! Jump on Lassiter's!"

It seemed that Gus had read Juliet's mind. The larger hood of the Crown Vic would make a better landing pad than the short, sloped hood of the Echo.

Shawn moved to the other side of the truck bed. Juliet could no longer see him, causing a tug of worry to twist at her lower lip, anxiety mounting. Juliet took the 'Protect' part of her oath of office very seriously. It was harder to protect what she could not see. Although she never doubted that they would find Shawn alive, seeing him alive and physically strong enough to consider a suicidal leap onto the hood of a car was surprisingly important to her emotional well-being.

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The Crown Vic skidded to a halt as the dying pickup truck slowed to a stop. Henry had accused Lassiter of moving too slowly while they were conducting the ground search for Shawn. Now that the injured man had been found, Lassiter moved like the younger, vital man he was. His seatbelt was off before the car stopped rolling. The door slammed open and Lassiter jumped out and over to assist the younger Spencer.

After following a trail that Lassiter more than half-believed would lead to a dead psychic at the end, he was elated to find Shawn not only alive, but able-bodied enough to perform an insane leap onto the hood of a moving car. He was damned if he was going to let the bastard who shot Shawn in the first place shoot him again.

Spencer had the presence of mind to hold out the gun for Lassiter to grab and use. The detective snapped up the offered weapon while simultaneously reaching for the wounded psychic. His hand latched on to Shawn's pants, using them as a handle to swing the injured man up and away from the line of fire, not particularly caring if Shawn remained upright. The only thing that mattered was that Shawn was no longer a target. Lassiter made sure of that as he trained his weapon on the perp and announced his legal status.

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Shawn's status mattered very much to his father. Henry couldn't seem to move fast enough. He knew that Shawn was not thinking clearly. Rather than hit the ground to make himself a smaller target in the likely event of gunfire, the injured man was stumbling along the side of the road. Henry ran to assist his son's faltering steps. Shawn's weak, "Dad!" was as welcome a sound to the elder Spencer's ears as the very first time his baby son had said the word.

Henry could feel Shawn's weight leaning heavily into him. The foot search had been long and tiring. As much as Henry would have loved to keep holding his son, he led him over to the Crown Vic, letting the hood of the car take his weight.

When Henry's eyes caught the eyes of the man Lassiter was restraining, his focus of concentration narrowed until he could see nothing other than the man who'd almost killed his son. The emotions he'd been holding in check broke free and combined to form a murderous rage. There was no mercy, no soul in the anger-darkened eyes of the killer. Shawn should've shot the bastard.

Henry put himself bodily between the killer and his son, leaning into the perp as he fisted hands in his shirt. His voice low, calm, and deadly serious, he informed the man, "You low-life piece of shit. You just made the biggest mistake of your life. That man you shot is an employee of the Santa Barbara Police Department." Henry was viciously glad when he felt the man twitch at the information and the implied threat. "That's right. Whatever you've heard about guys who shoot at cops and what happens to them in prison, it's true." He twisted one of the man's arms up and back, satisfied at the resulting grimace of pain produced by the action.

Lassiter had been silently observing, but judged it was time to intervene. He knew that the elder Spencer was strong enough and angry enough to do some serious physical harm to the alleged killer. While the detective would be more than happy for the son of a bitch to receive some old-style justice, his badge did not allow him to stand aside and let it happen.

"Henry, don't waste your time on this useless piece of garbage."

The elder Spencer was not ready to let go. He leaned all of his weight into the perp, wanting to keep pushing and pushing until the man was a smear on the hood of the car, saving the criminal justice system the time and money required for a trial by simply crushing the cockroach of a man. "And most of all, the reason you'll be sorry that Shawn didn't shoot you instead of your damn truck-" Henry bent down so his next words were hissed into the man's ear: "That man that you shot is my son."

The older man gave one last forceful shove, slamming the perp into the hood before straightening up and away to assist his son as Lassiter took over control of the prisoner.

The lying bastard fought against being moved as he tried to explain, "I didn't shoot him! It was my idiot partner! You gotta believe me! I didn't do it!"

Unimpressed by the probable truth of the suspect's declaration, the detective explained, "Even if that's true, you shot your partner, and that makes you both a kidnapper and a murderer. Enjoy your life in prison, scumbag."

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	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to all who reviewed and kept my muses prodding when I would have left this story labeled 'Complete' as is. This, the final 'final' chapter, kept growing until it was longer than all of the previous chapters combined!

Some of the dialogue quoted in this story is from the actual episode, and belongs to the creators of 'Psych.'

Rather than ramble on, I present:

**SHOT IN THE DARK** – More missing scenes

**By Beth Green**

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Shawn went from unresponsive to awake in a pain-filled instant. For one panic-stricken moment he thought that he was still in the hands of his kidnappers. Shawn could not help the cry of pain that escaped as was moved from the ambulance stretcher to the Emergency Room gurney. His shoulder felt as if someone was trying to saw his arm off. Shawn's unhelpful brain supplied only one immediate fact: he needed to get away. His weak struggle for freedom was interrupted by a rapid series of sights and sounds that joined together to form a coherent picture.

"He's waking up!" Flash of white light, white ceiling … "What are his vitals?" … "Son, can you tell me your name?" Another flash of white, this time of white cloth on blue, a lab coat over a scrub top … "Take it easy." Hands reaching, tugging, and pulling as clothing was removed … "Can you tell me where you are?"

Shawn calmed down as he put the fragments together and reassembled the puzzle of his life. In a voice so breathy and weak that he half-doubted it belonged to him, Shawn was finally able to answer the latter question, "Hospital." The lab-coated figure's half-smile in response told Shawn that he was correct, even before the lady confirmed, "That's right. Do you remember what happened?"

Before he could verbally reply, Shawn's brain supplied him with a flash memory recall of the longest hours of his life. In the span of a few hours' time, he had gone from elation at having put together the pieces of a crime before it ever occurred, to the pain of being shot and kidnapped, to the helplessness of being restrained and the fear that he was going to die when a stone-cold killer shoved a gun into his face, to hopelessness and despair as he had been forced to listen while his Dad and Lassiter, close enough to be seen and heard, believed the lies that they were told and left Shawn in enemy hands; and finally, to relief at being rescued.

Shawn whispered an answer to the question: "Yes."

Shawn would have loved to have been given the opportunity to answer more questions. Instead, the doctor proceeded to torture him by examining his shoulder in excruciatingly uncomfortable detail. Shawn gasped out a pain-filled "Ow!" followed by an impressive string of curse words. The subsequent physical examination was yet another item added to the growing list of things Shawn's eidetic memory would give him no choice but to remember. Shawn promised himself that the next time someone (Gus) expressed envy regarding his ability to recall minutia regarding past events, Shawn would share the memory of this pain by kicking that someone in the 'little gusters.'

The minutes seemed to pass in hour-like increments as the doctor continued to poke and prod. Shawn was beginning to think that there would be no end to the abuse heaped upon him this day, when the doctor finally, thankfully, decided to stop and share her findings.

"Okay, Shawn, all things considered, you're not doing too badly. While getting shot is never a good thing, the bullet that hit you seems to have taken the path that would cause the least amount of damage. The wound still needs to be cleaned out, and you're going to need antibiotics to head off any infection from the open wound, and obviously you're going to be sore for a while, but right now I see no reason why you shouldn't be able to make a complete recovery."

The doctor's optimistic prognosis was good news, but her next words were the best immediate news: "We'll get you something for pain before we do anything else."

Shawn would have ignored the wedding ring on the doctor's hand and gladly kissed her at that moment if he had been physically capable. Of course, if he were physically able, he wouldn't be in need of her services. He settled for a simple, but heartfelt, "Thank you."

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"Abigail, this is Gus. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Shawn's in the hospital. He's been shot."

Abigail received the news that Shawn had been shot with the same disbelief she'd felt before her first real date with Shawn, when she had been told that he and Gus were on the trail of a serial killer. The carefree, fun-loving Shawn she went to high school with could not be involved in something so dark and terrifying. It could not be true; yet then, as now, the truth could not be denied. Shawn had been shot.

Abigail chose not to think about the subject of the phone call on the drive over to the hospital. Instead, she remembered the last time she'd seen Shawn, just a few short hours ago.

They had spent the evening together. Dinner and a movie had led to more interesting pursuits afterward at Shawn's apartment. Shawn had suggested that she spend the night. Abigail had been tempted, but kept the image of herself surrounded by a roomful of energetic children uppermost in her mind as she declined the offer. "I have to get up early for school, and if I stay, there's no way either one of us will be getting any sleep."

Shawn smiled seductively in response. "You say that like it's a bad thing." He reached out a hand and began a slow, gentle massage of her nearest shoulder. The hand was followed by an arm, and the arm by another hand as Shawn's touch became more intimate.

"God, you have great hands." Abigail let herself enjoy the moment until slowly, regretfully, she pulled away from Shawn's loving embrace. "I'm sorry, I really, really am. As much as I'd love to continue this 'conversation,' I need my sleep so I don't fly into my classroom on a broom and do my best impression of the Wicked Witch of the West, instead of Teacher of the Year."

Last night, leaving Shawn had seemed like a good idea. Now, Abigail cursed herself for the decision. Her rational brain recognized the futility of the "what ifs" and "if onlys." Love overrode logic, and insisted that she should have stayed.

Abigail gripped the steering wheel tighter as she followed the direction signs for the hospital's Emergency Room parking and pulled into the nearest available space. She sat and stared at the imposing building and bright red-lettered "Emergency" sign above the entrance, needing to consciously relax her tense hold on the steering wheel before she could reach for the car door handle. She paused again before the door latch disengaged.

Once she saw Shawn, the last faint hope she held onto in her heart that this was all part of some elaborate prank would be negated by the grim facts. Abigail was not certain that she was ready for that much reality. But … she loved Shawn. She had chosen not to spend the night with him, and now would have to forever after wonder if her presence last night would have kept him safe. She absolutely, positively, for capital-D-Damn sure would be there for him today. Her spine straightened, her hand moved, and the door opened.

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Abigail pushed against the closed door of Shawn's hospital room. It opened easily beneath her trembling hand.

The harsh fluorescent lighting, unflattering under the best of circumstances, did Shawn's appearance no favors, emphasizing the paleness of his skin. Dark circles underlined his closed eyes. A bulky bandage was visible on his left shoulder, peeking out above the neck of the overly-large hospital gown that had been substituted for his ruined clothing. His hair lacked its usual towering height of artfully-arranged curls. Shawn's brown locks were dirty and untidy, and lay flat and lifeless upon his head. Shawn's left arm was propped up on pillows. His good arm was handicapped by the presence of an IV line.

Abigail thought she had been emotionally prepared for this visit. She had met Gus outside of Shawn's hospital room. Her fear for Shawn's well-being, aided and abetted by her lack of knowledge regarding his condition, must have been evident in her body language. Gus' worried expression lessened and he gestured back and forth with his right hand as he began to ease her concern. "No, Abigail, Shawn's okay, I mean, he's going to be okay. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more on the phone, but I hadn't seen the doctor yet, and I wasn't sure, but I am now.

"They're only keeping him in the hospital because they're worried that his concussion might be more serious, but I'm sure it won't be; it's not. You know Shawn's got a hard head. His shoulder –" Gus waggled a hand at eye level as he continued, "Not quite as good. It's pretty sore, because of having been shot and all, but they've got him on some pretty strong pain medication.

"Detective Lassiter and Juliet are going to be here soon to take Shawn's statement. His Dad is in there now, but you can go on in. I'm going to get some coffee."

Abigail entered the room and moved to the foot of Shawn's hospital bed, continuing her silent observation. Shawn's father sat in a chair nearby, leaning forward with elbows resting on knees, his chin resting on top of fisted hands. He looked up when Abigail entered, then looked back at his son, seeing what she saw.

Abigail opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, a harsh sob escaped. Shawn's closed eyes opened at the sound. Abigail raised her hands to her face to stifle any further outcry, but could not stop the trembling of her body, or the sudden rush of tears. She wanted to throw herself onto Shawn, to hold on tightly and never, ever let go, to make him swear that'd he find a safer line of work. She knew that if she did so, she would only hurt Shawn by her actions. He had been hurt enough for one day; hell, he'd been hurt enough for one _lifetime._ She couldn't do this.

Abigail turned away and found herself heading for the door without consciously deciding to leave. Her pace quickened as her feet propelled her on a near run out of the room and into the brightly lit corridor. She only got as far as the hallway wall before she stopped, too unsteady to stand unassisted. She let herself slide along the wall and down onto the floor.

Henry had followed Abigail out of the room. He joined her on the floor, and held her as she sobbed. Taking the place of her absent father, he began a soothing, rocking motion, and told her what she so desperately wanted to hear. "It's okay, Shawn's going to be okay; sh-h-h, it's all right, he's going to be okay." She buried her head in his shoulder, and wept.

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Shawn did not mind seeing the obvious evidence of Abigail's breakdown when she finally returned. He described her appearance – the roughened voice, the reddened eyes, the pale face combined with pink-tipped nose – as "cute," and offered words of comfort. "I'm going to be okay; really, I am," then added, "But … it's good to know you care."

She declared, "I *do* care!" and bent to kiss him carefully, tenderly, gently, conveying her love with a lingering kiss as he raised a hand to cup her face and return the feeling. Afterward, no further words were needed.

Gus returned carrying coffee for both Abigail and Henry. Before they could take more than a grateful sip, they were joined by Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara.

Abigail noted that unlike herself, Juliet had taken the time to freshen her hair and makeup. Abigail frowned when she realized that Shawn appreciated the other woman's appearance, and combed a hand through her own hair in a futile attempt to smooth the disheveled strands.

Juliet did not waste time in taxing the injured man's limited resources with idle chitchat. She got straight to the point. "Shawn, if you're up to it, we're here to take your statement."

Henry stood up and prepared to leave. Shawn objected. "If you don't mind, I'd like everyone to stay, so I only have to say this once."

Lassiter opened his mouth, ready to declare Shawn's request legally unacceptable. Henry spoke before the detective could get out his first word. Lassiter shook his head and silently gave thanks that he would only have to deal with the younger Spencer and not his father for the rest of this visit.

Henry explained, "Son, as much as I'd like to make this easier for you, I know that you know that legally there can't be anyone else present who might influence your statement." Henry did not give Shawn the chance to respond. "Gus, Abigail, let's go."

Abigail leaned down and kissed Shawn's unshaven cheek. "I'll be back. Love you."

Shawn reached out a hand as if he was going to try and hold her back, but let it drop to the bedcover as he repeated the words he had been unable to say directly to her during his captivity. "I love you, Abigail."

Juliet couldn't help tensing as she heard the familiar words; the words that she thought hours ago would end with Shawn speaking her name instead of Abigail's; the words that had nearly caused Juliet to speak the feelings held close in her heart: "I love you, Shawn."

She was glad when Lassiter began to speak, drawing Shawn's attention so that he would not have the chance to observe any discomfort that Juliet might have revealed.

"Okay, Spencer, this is how we're going to proceed. Both Detective O'Hara and myself will be recording this conversation. In addition, Detective O'Hara will be taking notes. Let us know if you need to stop at any time. We understand if the medication that you're on makes it hard to recall details."

Shawn reassured the detectives. "Believe me, I don't think I'm going to have any problem remembering what happened; I was there, even though I wish I wasn't. I really, really wish I wasn't. Besides, I knew that you were coming, so I had them cut back on my pain medication. It would be kind of embarrassing if I fell asleep in the middle of a sentence, or started talking about elephants because your ears remind me of Dumbo."

Lassiter shook his head. "I'm going to give you a 'get-well' present, and not acknowledge the last part of your statement."

Juliet hated the idea that Shawn might be experiencing more pain than he should have to tolerate. She interrupted Shawn's Lassiter-baiting with her concern. "Shawn, getting shot and kidnapped is a big deal; you don't have to make light of it. If you need to stop for pain medication, let us know right away. We don't have to finish this today. One of the perps is dead, and the other is behind bars. Your statement can wait."

Shawn frowned. "I just want to get this over with."

Juliet stepped away from her partner and closer to the bed. "I understand, but I want you to promise me that you won't let your pain get as bad as it was when I saw you out on that highway." They both winced at the too-recent reminder of Shawn's untreated agony.

He nodded in agreement. "I promise." Shawn raised his right hand, and in a poor attempt at a Southern Belle Scarlett, stated, "God as my witness, I shall not do anything that might cause me to feel that much pain again - _ever._" He continued in a normal tone of voice, "I mean, _never._ I am not a fan of pain, especially when it's my own."

Lassiter knew that the longer they talked, the greater the odds were that whatever pain medication Spencer had floating around in his body would be used up. "Okay, then, let's get started." He began by recording basic details such as times and dates and names of persons present, before asking Shawn to make his statement.

Shawn obliged. "On the morning of October 16th, 2009, I experienced a psychic vision that connected a not-so-random traffic rollover involving an ice cream truck to a crime involving an armored truck." Although he took the time to maintain his cover as a psychic, Shawn was too exhausted to point so much as a single finger at his head when he made the reference to his 'vision.' Shawn did not move, the lines of pain creasing his face silent evidence of his discomfort as he told his story. The head of the bed was elevated so that he could see his audience as he continued.

"I went online to try to figure out if there had been any recent crimes involving armored trucks. My research told me that the crime hadn't happened yet, and a psychic flash told me that the answer to everything would be found at the Berman auto yard. At three thirty-five in the morning, I called Burton Guster, and Detectives Carlton Lassiter and Juliet O'Hara, and asked them to meet me at the auto yard."

Juliet nodded. She had seen the evidence of Shawn's research on his computer. As Shawn continued to provide a precise accounting of events, Juliet was impressed with Shawn's ability to remember everything that had happened to him, even down to minute details such as the name of the auto yard and the timing of phone calls. Despite the trauma he'd been through and the pain medication in his system, Shawn's recall was truly amazing. She only had time to jot down the highlights as he spoke.

"I was the first to arrive at the auto yard. When I got there, I recognized the sound of welding. I'd heard the same sound just two days earlier, and was curious to find out whether the same guy I'd seen at the maintenance shop was the man doing the welding at the auto yard. I guess I thought he'd be too busy working to notice me, but I was wrong.

"He moved really fast for a big guy, because I swear not a minute passed from the time the welder stopped to the time he was standing in front of me and holding a gun instead of a welding torch."

Shawn's narration was so detailed that Lassiter readily believed the pretend psychic was quoting dialogue verbatim. He couldn't help the words that escaped as the trained detective part of his brain put together the pieces of the puzzle that Shawn Spencer presented and came to an inescapable conclusion: the bastard had a photographic, or near-photographic, memory. "Son of a bitch!"

Shawn nodded, "Yeah, that's pretty much what I said when I got shot."

Lassiter folded his arms across his chest, both embarrassed that he'd said the words out loud, and grateful that they hadn't seemed out of place. "Yes, right, sorry; please continue."

Shawn paused for a moment. It was getting harder to keep his emotions in check; emotions that had no place in a police record. The problem with an eidetic memory is that you didn't get to pick and choose what to remember and what to forget. With remembered actions came remembered pain. He distracted himself by riffing on Lassiter's last comment. "For the record, Detective Lassiter only said the word 'Please' because this conversation is being recorded." Neither Lassiter nor Juliet responded to his weak joke, so he continued.

"After I got shot, my legs gave out and down I went. The shooter (who I'm going to call 'Alias Garth' for the rest of this statement) left me there alone, but he didn't leave for long. Alias Garth came back with a 1970 yellow roadrunner, license plate number 2DDT-465, and parked a few feet away from where I was laying. Lying? No, I'm telling the truth, so I'll just say 'from where I fell when I got shot.' Alias Garth got out of the car, opened the trunk, and attacked me again, this time with a roll of duct tape. He taped my wrists together, and then taped my ankles together. I tried to kick him, or head butt him, or *something,* but he covered me like a big, sweaty octopus, and I couldn't move. He dragged me over to the trunk of the car, picked me up, and threw me in.

"There's a bit of a gap in my memory from that point on. I'm guessing I passed out from the pain of landing on my shoulder when he tossed me into the trunk. I don't remember the trunk lid closing. I do remember waking up in the dark trunk of a moving car. It's not something I recommend to anyone. Fortunately, it wasn't the first time in my life that I found myself trapped in the trunk of a car."

Lassiter half-listened as Shawn's narration continued. While Shawn described kicking out the taillight so that he was able to leave clues to his location before he managed to escape from the trunk, Lassiter was pondering the implication that Shawn had been locked in the trunk of a car prior to the most recent incident.

Lassiter had a pretty good memory himself, and he remembered Henry Spencer's assertion that the piece of broken taillight they had found was from the kidnap vehicle courtesy of Shawn, and the elder Spencer's comment that he knew because he was the one who had taught Shawn. Despite the evidence, Lassiter did not want to believe that a father would lock his own son in the trunk of a car. Yet, it seemed that he had. Perhaps Shawn Spencer had good reason for his rocky relationship with his father.

Lassiter silently scolded himself. 'What am I thinking? I'm no Dr. Phil.' He had no desire, nor intention of involving himself in the complicated relationship between father and son. After all, there had been times in the past, and probably would be times in the future when, if given the opportunity, Lassiter would gladly confine Shawn Spencer to the locked trunk of a car.

The more he listened to Shawn's narrative, the less likely it became that Lassiter would ever do anything so drastic. As a detective, he was used to redirecting witnesses and asking questions to clarify their statements. With Shawn Spencer, no such intervention was necessary. The pseudo-psychic was incredibly attentive to detail, so much so that Lassiter was actually finding himself feeling sorry for the younger man as he described his ordeal.

Shawn continued, "They were arguing about –" He paused, not wanting to remember the next part.

Juliet noticed his discomfort. "Are you okay? Do you need something for pain? Do you need to stop?"

Shawn shook his head, and pointed at the water glass resting on his bedside table as he verbalized his request: "Water."

Juliet quickly retrieved the glass and handed it to Shawn. He sipped slowly, trying to loosen the tightening muscles of his throat. The water didn't help. Remembered fear kept his jaw clenched.

He couldn't stop the replay of events going on in his head, so he shared what he was seeing. "They were arguing about whether or not they should kill me. Bad guy number two, who from here on in I'm going to refer to as 'Scumbag,' said, 'I say we just shoot him in the head, dump the body, and get on with this.'

"I thought that was a terrible idea, so I suggested that they draw a hot bath instead."

Juliet asked, "Did you really say that?"

Shawn answered with an affirmative nod, "Yes, I did."

Lassiter winced. He knew how irritating Spencer's alleged sense of humor could be, and suspected that his kidnappers would not be an appreciative audience. He was right.

"Scumbag didn't like my answer, because his answer was, 'You're a smart mouth, huh?' and he and Alias Garth came up to me and got up close and personal.

"Alias Garth said, 'I got it under control. You want me to shoot him right now myself, I will.

"Well, I couldn't let that statement go unchallenged, so I pointed out, 'Not to be a stickler, but you did shoot me once already.'"

"Oh my God!" Juliet could easily picture the events playing out just as Shawn said. She couldn't help verbalizing her surprised reaction that Shawn was still here to tell his story, and hadn't been killed right then and there.

Shawn explained, "I guess Scumbag didn't want to give Alias Garth the chance to shoot me again, because he leaned over me, cocked the trigger of his gun, and put it up to my head." Shawn raised his right hand, thumb up with first and index fingers extended in the shape of a gun, and clarified, "Actually, he stuck the muzzle right here."

Lassiter clarified for the recording, "Let the record show that the witness indicated the right side of his neck, just below his chin."

Shawn continued, "Because he rejected the hot bath idea, I tried to think of something to distract Scumbag from his homicidal urge, but really, as I explained to him, I was having a hard time concentrating on anything but the gun. I told him it could've been my ADD acting up.

"I was serious, but Scumbag thought I was joking. He was close enough to blow his rotten onion breath in my face, and said, 'I want you to imagine a bullet, coming from that gun, penetrating your skin and lodging in your brain.'"

Shawn could imagine it all too well. He had to stop and take another sip of water before he could continue. "Scumbag asked me if I knew how easy it would be for him to do what he said. He stared at me, waiting for some kind of answer, so I said, 'Physically...? Yes. But I would imagine that it would give you pause … emotionally? No?'

"I guess that was the wrong answer, because he shoved the gun into my throat hard enough to leave a mark. I have to say, Scumbag has a twisted idea of luck, because then he asked me if I knew how lucky I was.

"I knew Scumbag didn't like me, but I found out he didn't like Alias Garth, either. Scumbag's next words were, 'My idiot partner here screwed up big time. Hey, that's par for the course. Now, we pull this thing off, and we're outta here. BUT Einstein here screws up again, you're gonna be my ticket. Now I got a hostage sitting in my back pocket, just in case. But know this: one stupid move, and I've got more than enough plastic bags for your body parts. Got it?'

"What could I say except 'I got it?' Well, that, and: 'Note to self: Call Hefty with commercial idea.'

Shawn stopped talking, huffed out a breath of air, leaned back into his pillow, and closed his eyes, taking a moment to calm his unsteady nerves.

Juliet said nothing, knowing that Shawn had just been forced to relive what was undoubtedly one of the worst moments of his life. She watched as his right hand slowly moved up to his neck and began to rub along the area where the ghost imprint of a gun lingered.

Shawn allowed himself a brief respite before he continued.

Juliet watched, concerned as the frown line between Shawn's eyes became more prominent with each additional recalled event. When Shawn stated, "I told Alias Garth, 'I can say, without a doubt, that this is the most pain I've ever been in, in my life,'" Juliet could read the truth of the words in the tense way he held himself still, as if the slightest move would reawaken that pain in the here and now.

Lassiter's envy of Shawn's excellent memory lessened as the fallout from his detailed recollection of events became apparent. Shawn was hurting both emotionally and physically.

Shawn's voice began to falter. "And, uh, I heard you … you and … and my Dad. I … I could see you, through the dirty glass of the window. I couldn't talk, I couldn't make a sound. I wanted to, believe me, I really tried. The more I tried, the tighter his grip got around my neck.

"Look, I know it's hard to see into a dark room, especially when you're outside in the bright sunlight, but if just one of you had turned around, had bothered to really _look_ … I mean, I understand Scumbag being able to fool you, but my Dad …"

Shawn raised his right hand to grab at his throat, his Adam's apple working as if he was back in that dark room, trying desperately to make a sound as the access to the air that he needed to survive was slowly choked off. His eyes were suspiciously bright, as if they were filled with unshed tears.

Juliet raised a hand of her own, wanting to offer any comfort that the injured man would accept. "Shawn …"

His voice trembled, showing how close he was to tears as he stopped Juliet by speaking over her, "I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore. Please leave. Now."

Lassiter felt more than a little uncomfortable after Shawn's revelation that not only had he and Henry missed the evidence that was practically in front of them, but their presence had nearly gotten Shawn killed. Lassiter agreed that they had heard enough for one day. "Okay. This interview is officially over. Give us a call when you feel up to completing your statement."

Juliet nodded, having already shut off her tape recorder, while Lassiter did the same. She and her partner were heading out the door when Juliet, her steady voice providing no hint of her turbulent emotional state, held back long enough to say, "I'll let the nurse know you need something for pain. Okay?"

Shawn didn't trust himself to speak without letting a sob escape. He simply responded with an affirmative nod of his head.

Thankfully, Shawn's nurse was quick to respond to the request for pain medication. He let the drug pull his troubled mind down into oblivion.

////

\\\\

Juliet had stopped by the nurse's station to convey Shawn's need for pain medication before she joined her partner by the bank of elevators.

Unable to comfort Shawn, Juliet turned her attention to comforting her partner. "You know that there was no reason for you not to believe the perp when he told you that Shawn wasn't at that gas station."

Lassiter disagreed. "No, you weren't on the scene. I was. And I have to tell you, it's Spencer's fault.

Juliet could not believe her partner's words. "Carlton!"

Lassiter raised a hand before she could object further. "I'm talking about Spencer senior. If I hadn't been distracted by Henry Spencer acting like he was still on the force, there is an excellent chance that Shawn would have been rescued a hell of a lot sooner than he was."

Lassiter continued his rant as they rode the elevator down to the ground floor. "That man is a menace. Thank God he's retired. Let's hope he stays that way, and joins all of the other old folks in some senior center out in Florida, safely on the other side of the country."

Juliet was glad that Lassiter had not been present when Chief Vick had praised Henry's conduct on the Yang case. The Chief had confided to Juliet that she was thinking of offering the elder Spencer a job. For Lassiter's sake, Juliet hoped that would never happen.

~end


End file.
